Sweet Romance11 min read
The Nose Swab, The Pink Bottles, and a Very Loud QR Code
ButterPicks13 views
I was in line for a swab when I realized the tester in full protective gear was my ex.
"Is this really necessary?" I said, half to the man in the suit, half to myself.
"Open," Jackson said, and his voice was the same soft, practiced thing I used to love and hate. "Breathe."
"Too deep!" I whimpered like a child. "Please be gentle."
"Is it deep?" Jackson smiled with just his eyes visible above the mask and then—like he had done a thousand times before—he pushed the swab farther and broke it straight into the sample tube.
He glanced at the young man behind me in line and his eyebrow lifted. "New boyfriend is a bit young, huh?"
I went blank. I pulled my mask up and fled like a thief. I ran until I couldn't hear anyone's voice, then stopped outside and realized I'd taken my brother with me—Clement, coughing like a small engine because they had poked him too.
"That doctor was a monster," Clement croaked. "He almost pierced my throat."
"Shh. Or next time he'll go for our other holes," I said, joking, and Clement's eyes widened.
"You mean...will he swab our...?" Clement's voice hit a few octaves higher.
A few old men in line shivered with scandalized interest. I grabbed Clement's arm and dragged him away before he could make the rest of the test center's day more awkward.
At home I ladled two big bowls of braised pork and shoved them in front of him.
"If you eat like this I'm going to get hemorrhoids," Clement moaned. "Sis, get some greens."
"I'll use the celery sprouts I planted," I said.
"Wait—don't! Let them grow!" Clement protested.
We ate meat on two sprigs of celery like soldiers.
We had been out of fresh vegetables for five days. The freezer had old, hoarded meat. The fridge had drinks gone. My guts were confused and hard as a rock from too much meat. I drank the last probiotic drink and cursed my life.
At two in the afternoon the building told us supplies were coming. I sat by the door all afternoon like a statue. When the knock came at six, it sounded like music.
I flung the door open and nearly fainted.
Jackson stood there with bags of fruit and greens.
"You—you're volunteering?" I smiled too fast and reached for the bags.
"You two living together?" Jackson asked, eyeing a pair of shoes inside my doorway. He hid the bag behind him like it was contraband. I grabbed for it and missed.
"Jackson, that's harsh!" I said, half laughing.
"What's wrong?" Clement came out of the bathroom with bubbles in his hair and a towel around his waist. He grabbed a chair and marched out like a tiny knight.
"Who are you?" Clement demanded. "Don't think just because you're taller you can scare me, mister."
"Go away," Jackson said, his voice calm.
"He's my ex," I blurted.
"Ex what?" Clement blinked. "You didn't say. I thought he was here to steal vegetables."
Jackson smirked in the way that used to both annoy and soothe me. "Delilah, your habit of picking men for their looks—can we stop?"
I stomped my foot. "I asked for revenge, not advice."
Jackson left with the groceries and an expression I couldn't read. He had always been unreadable like a closed book with a bright cover.
We ate together, Clement joking and me thinking about the past. Jackson had been like that—quiet, careful, severe with kindness. He had been called aloof in college and later called "the clinic's cool one." He had never been easy to read.
On his graduation day he had said to me, red in the face: "Delilah, with your will, run a marathon. You'd win."
I had laughed back, "Can I run on your heart then?"
He had said, "Don't even think it."
That always stuck with me. I chased him anyway. I used silly stunts. The birthday stunt—the video with people in flowered skirts—had been a catastrophe. He had thanked me with a cold smile and turned away. I had kept chasing. A year later he was a psychiatrist at the big hospital. I was a model. We were odd matches but we fit like mismatched socks that somehow work.
Clement watched me chop cucumbers fast and cut fish open clean. He said, "Sis, how did you catch a man like Jackson anyway? You don't seem the type."
I tossed a fish head like it was confetti. "Wild garlic in the wasteland, who can resist?"
"You mean wild chives," Clement barked a laugh.
"Whatever. He likes my noise, my face, my everything," I said. My smile was proud. I had hunted for five years. The reward had been him. I had thought I had him.
Then Kehlani Jordan appeared.
"Delilah, you really should stay away from Dr. Diaz," a nurse told me. "Kehlani is always bringing him snacks. She flirts with everyone."
I laughed, "He won't fall. Not my man."
But then I saw Kehlani in Jackson's office, putting fish food into the little fishbowl I had given him. "Why are you sitting at his desk?" I asked her, snatching at the fish food like a hawk.
"Oh, this hospital is my family's," she said with a smile that was a practiced curve. "I can walk anywhere I like."
Kehlani kept saying things that eroded me. "You caught him the same way I do. He praised me for my figure more than yours."
My blood ran cold. Someone had been in his confidence.
Later I went home and smashed the fishbowl into the trash. Jackson called. I said, "I am bored of sleeping with you."
He was cool and his voice barely changed. "Bored?"
"I like the new model in the office," I said, spiteful. "His pecs are bigger than your head."
He hung up.
The next morning Clement told me Kehlani had tried to kill herself and was in ICU. The hospital said she had a delusion of being loved by Jackson. The case hit gossip.
I felt hollow. Was I the reason? Had I caused this? The internet had a field day. I had split clean from Jackson in anger and the world took sides.
On a Wednesday, my hand slipped while carving vegetables and I sliced my finger. Blood everywhere. Clement wrapped me in a towel and pushed me into the stairwell like a whirlwind.
"Someone call for a doctor!" Clement shouted in panic.
I leaned on him and pretended to be weak. Then Jackson came running like everything in the world had changed. He grabbed my hand and wrapped it, his gloved fingers quick and steady.
"Delilah," he said softly. "Why are you hurting yourself?"
"I'm just thinking," I said, lying.
He wrapped my wound properly. "Call me if anything happens," he said, "really call me."
I had deleted his number in anger. Now I wanted to keep it forever.
That night, we drank the prophylactic tea he had brought, and I hid a box of embarrassing pink items in the corner. A neighbor would later knock and drop a box by my door. I tried to explain it was probiotics and medical items, but Jackson's eyes read "embarrassment" and he left.
At the testing site the next day, I stood before Jackson and he performed my swab with great gentleness. Yet the line was full of neighbors, and every time another woman handed him a note, I burned.
I took a bullhorn from Clement and blurted, "Thanks for supporting my lovely boyfriend. When the quarantine ends, please come to 51-303 for candies!"
The crowd cheered. Some women giggled, some snorted. An older woman shouted, "Is she crazy?" Someone else said, "Maybe she's been cooped up too long." I felt small, ashamed. Kehlani's words from earlier echoed.
I nearly ran away and left my slipper. My heart stung with the shame.
I ran to the toilet and—ugh—I was sick. The probiotics worked too well and the toilet clogged. I wrestled a plunger like a ship's captain and passed out from the effort. I woke to a room full of people and the quiet, steady presence of Jackson.
"You also came here?" I croaked.
"I couldn't leave you," he said.
Then the test came back positive. I was going to lose all dignity. The building emptied, and then we were sent to a field hospital.
Jackson stayed with me. He packed my small bag with a care and attention that made something hot and dangerous bloom in my chest.
We were in isolation together. He made sure I had orange slices, a blanket, proper rest. He smiled at me once—just once—and my heart cracked. I confessed in a wet whisper, "Let's get back together for one day."
He held me like a lighthouse. "If you need me, I'm here."
We were both released and went back to home isolation. Jackson moved into my apartment to keep me company. He cooked me noodles on my birthday and we laughed until the neighbors' group chat filled with wedding candy order messages.
He surprised me with a very public, very odd proposal. He had asked neighbors to scan a QR code he'd put on during a supply run. People were added, messages flooded the building group: "Delilah, marry Jackson!" In public I felt both embarrassed and very loved.
It was when life was soft and quiet again that Kehlani reappeared and things exploded.
We were at the hospital cafeteria for a staff meeting. Kehlani strutted in, all small talk and big smiles. I sat with Jackson and a few other doctors. The cafeteria was full—nurses, technicians, volunteers, the whole staff. Kehlani took the center table like she owned the sun.
"Good morning everyone," she sang. "I just want to thank Dr. Diaz for always being so thoughtful."
"Thank you," Jackson said, very still.
Then I stood. I couldn't sit any longer. My throat thrummed with a pulse of memory—of fish food in his office, of the trash, of words that cut like shells. I had kept quiet even as my mind beat itself bloody.
I walked to the center of the room. "Kehlani," I said.
She looked at me with a smile that froze. "Delilah," she said.
"You sat at his desk and fed his fish. You told me I caught him the same way you did. You said he praised your body more than mine."
She laughed. "Oh come on. We're colleagues."
"I have proof," I said. "You told me. You told me you had access to his private files. You said you were family-owned hospital. You said you could take his time. And when I confronted you, you told me to continue being his 'secret' if I liked it."
A dozen heads turned. The cafeteria grew very loud.
Jackson stood, slow and sure. "Kehlani, is that true?" His voice was a soft weapon.
Kehlani's smile faltered. "You don't know what you're talking about."
"Everyone," Jackson said, "please let her speak."
Kehlani swallowed, then spit out, "I did visit his office. But Delilah, you made this into a drama. You threw his fishbowl in the trash."
"Because you touched it," I said.
Kehlani's eyes gleamed like a cat. "You think you own him. You think you have a monopoly on his attention."
"That's not mine to own," I said. "But you promised him things in private, and then you made him uncomfortable."
"Private?" Kehlani laughed, loud and bright. "Everyone knows Dr. Diaz is a catch. I—"
"Stop," Jackson said. He had both hands on the table. "Stop, Kehlani."
Her face shifted between smug and small. "You can't control me," she hissed.
At that moment, Matthew D'Angelo, the senior nurse who had worked night shifts with Jackson, stood up. "I saw her in his office," he said. "I saw her rearrange his desk on more than one occasion. I saw her taking personal notes and asking overly personal questions. I reported it, but it was brushed off."
Other nurses murmured. A junior nurse, Beth Cortez, raised her hand. "She has promised promotions in exchange for 'favors' in a different department," Beth said quietly. "I have her messages."
Kehlani's face moved through five colors: cocky, then startled, then denial, then anger, then wilt. "Lies," she cried. "These are lies!"
"Are they?" Jackson's tone was gentle but iron. "Kehlani, did you promise nurses things in exchange for private time?"
She began to backpedal, the smile gone. "I wasn't—it's not like that."
"You're telling me," Clement, who had been visiting and now stood at my side, said, "that you gave them promises? You threatened someone for refusing?"
Kehlani shook her head like a frightened bird. "No! I didn't mean...I believed they would like me because I helped them. I didn't think it would turn into this."
A young tech raised his phone. "Do you want us to read your messages?" he asked.
Kehlani's eyes shot to the doorway. For the first time, she looked small.
A circle of people formed. Phones appeared. Screens shone. Messages showed up like confessions. Kehlani tried to act, to deflect, to laugh at it. "You can't prove anything!" she screamed at one point.
But people were there, and they remembered. Volunteers and doctors and aides stepped forward with details: promises, pressure, a pattern of pushing for private encounters, of asking for favors and offering favors. Her bravado melted. Her breathing hitched like a runner catching air.
"Stop! Stop it!" she cried. "You don't know me. You don't—"
"Enough," Jackson said quietly. "Kehlani, did you tell Delilah that you had the right to his time? Did you put yourself into his private space and call it 'help'?"
She faltered. There was a beat, like the whole room inhaled the truth. Finally, she fell apart.
"No! Please!" she sobbed. Her voice was thin and broken. "I didn't mean to hurt anyone. I...I was lonely. I wanted attention. I—"
A nurse who had once been mocked by Kehlani stood up. "You made me cry in the locker room once," she said. "You told me only those who did what you wanted would move up. You scared me."
Kehlani's shoulders trembled. Her denial turned to pleading. "Please, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I never thought—"
People stepped back. Some faces were hard. Some were visibly angry. Someone in the back, Raj Martinez, clicked a photo. A volunteer gasped. A tech mouthed, "Unbelievable."
Kehlani's voice became small, then a thin wail. "I'm sick, okay? I have problems. I can get help. Don't...don't throw me out."
The crowd's mood wavered. Some faces softened. "We are not here to mock people with problems," said Angel Watkins, the social worker who had been in charge of workplace conduct. "But you used your position. You turned power into pressure. You made others uncomfortable."
Kehlani grabbed the edge of a table and lost her composure. She clung to the table and wept, "Please! I will quit. I will get therapy. Please don't ruin me in front of everyone."
"You're confronting the harm," Angel said gently. "Get help, yes. But understand your actions had consequences."
Faces in the room shifted: some whispered, "Good," some shook their heads, some cried quietly remembering their own moments. A few people recorded. A few stepped away.
Kehlani's change had been dramatic: from smug manipulator to shocked denier to pleading patient. Her posture crumpled like paper.
Jackson looked at her—no triumph, only tiredness. "Go," he said quietly. "Get help."
Kehlani fell to her knees and begged, "Please. Please, Dr. Diaz, don't expose me. I'll help, I'll—"
"Kehlani," Jackson said, "I am not the one to decide. The hospital has an ethics board. There will be an investigation."
She wailed and begged as the staff turned away, murmuring among themselves. A few people recorded. A nurse tutted. "She deserves help but also accountability," one said.
The scene lasted many minutes. Kehlani's change in expression was complete. The room had watched her fall apart publicly and the reaction had been a chorus: shame, pity, anger.
Later, outside the cafeteria, I ran into two nurses who had been part of the revelation. They were shaking but relieved. "Thanks for speaking up," one said quietly.
"Someone had to," I said. "I didn't expect it to go that far."
"People will argue about this," she warned. "But Kehlani's reputation is broken now. She will face consequences."
I thought about the hospital's power structures, about how easy it is for someone to use charm as a weapon. I thought about Kehlani and her dark edges, and how she had gotten away for so long.
After that day Kehlani was suspended pending investigation. She tried to sue for defamation later in a publicized hearing but the witnesses, texts, and messages painted a full picture. She had to publicly apologize at a hospital staff meeting—her voice small and shaky, her face red with humiliation. Her apology was recorded and spread across hospital chat groups. She begged for therapy and for a second chance. Some colleagues offered it; others kept their distance. Kehlani's fall from grace was not violent, but it was complete: colleagues who had once greeted her with smiles now looked past her. Students whispered. Patients asked for different doctors. Kehlani stood in front of them and repeated, "I am sorry" until the words were thin.
She had gone from being a woman who used free time to corner doctors and promise favors to someone who sat alone with a cup of instant coffee in the staff room, head bowed. The change was public, and it stung.
The aftermath changed our team. Policies were tightened. People learned to speak up.
After everything settled, I sat in my living room and looked at the box of pink bottles—the silly mistaken package that had started one of the smaller fires in our life.
Jackson sat beside me.
"I could have handled things better," I said.
"You did what you needed to do," he answered.
He looked at me like he always had—like a person who read the fine print of my heart. I smiled, very small.
"Do you still think my proposal was silly?" I asked.
He shrugged and held my hand. "It was loud and awkward. It was perfect."
On the wall my phone buzzed—another message from the building group, another offer of wedding candy. The QR code we had used to add neighbors was still pinned to the chat like a little flag.
I laughed and pulled Jackson close. "If anyone ever asks, tell them we are proof that quarantines make people do strange things."
He kissed the top of my head. "And that a swab can start a lot of things," he said.
We held hands, warm and a little sticky from orange juice, and listened to the faint hum of the building. Outside, somewhere a neighbor ordered the last of the faux-chocolate candies. The pink bottles were still in the corner. It was ridiculous. It was ours.
And when the neighborhood group later raised a toast on video—the old women waving tiny candies at the camera—I clicked "send" on a message that said, "Thanks for the candy. See you at 51-303."
That little QR code had led to a group of people I could now call neighbors, some witnesses, and some friends. The world outside was strange, but inside my small apartment, with Jackson and Clement and an odd box of goods, things were finally quiet enough to breathe.
The End
— Thank you for reading —